The Praxis (42 page)

Martinez approached Sempronia, reached out a hand and lifted her chin, so he could see her eyes at rest. “Is Shankaracharya
very
important, Proney?” he asked.

Her lips thinned to a line and she nodded. He kissed her forehead.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I'll do my best for him.”

Her arms went around him briefly in a fierce hug. “Right, then,” she said. “If you look after Nikkul, I
might
forgive you for PJ.”

She dashed from his room then, and he finished packing and called for the servants to carry his gear to the cab that would take him to the maglev station. Alikhan wasn't available—Martinez liked to think he was looking after
Corona
in his absence. He threw his winter overcoat over one arm, took the Golden Orb in its traveling case, marched down the broad staircase to the foyer, and said good-bye to his family.

Outside, snow glittered white beneath Zanshaa's dark green sky. The antimatter ring arced overhead, with its dockyards and the improvised squadron of which
Corona
was a part. The squadron would leave tomorrow, on special duty. Martinez didn't know where they were bound, knew only that they wouldn't be made a part of the Home Fleet, because they had been assigned to the Lai-own Do-faq's command, and not Jarlath's. He assumed there would be many long days of acceleration before he found out, unless Captain Farfang chose to inform his captains at the day's meeting.

But it turned out that Captain Farfang couldn't tell him anything, because he was dead.

“
Destiny
was finishing its conversion from a Naxid ship to one crewed by Torminel.” This from Dalkieth, his middle-aged senior lieutenant. Her excited voice was high-pitched yet soft, almost lisping, a child's voice that contrasted with her lined face. “Work was completed on the crew quarters last, so the hardshells had been bunking on the station and only came aboard last night to make final adjustments to the ship's environment. And you know that Torminel prefer a lower temperature than Naxids, because of the fur.”

“So it wasn't sabotage?”

“If it was, the saboteur was on the crew and died with everyone else. Because when they programmed the new temperatures, someone lost a decimal point somewhere, and
Destiny's
environment was cooled to one-tenth what it should be.”

Martinez was puzzled. “But the temperature change should have been gradual enough to—Oh.”

“Yes,” Dalkieth said. “Torminel have a hibernation reflex. When it gets cold, they just go into a deeper sleep. But even hibernation doesn't preserve them against an environment below freezing.”

Martinez shivered. “All of them died?”

“All of them. A hundred and twenty-something, dead in their racks.”

“And the guard on the airlock?”

“
Destiny
wasn't going to be in commission till today. Guards were provided by the Office of the Constabulary, not the ship itself. No one went in or out of
Destiny
till early this morning.”

When they found ice coating the walls, and frozen Torminel with frost glittering in their fur. Martinez wanted to lean back in his chair and marvel in awe at the horrific, whimsical blow of fate that had deprived the squadron of both its heaviest ship and its commander. But there was too much to do: two-thirds of his crew were strangers, a figure that included the officers. So far as he knew,
Corona
and its squadron would still leave the station tomorrow.

“Who's in command of the squadron?” he asked.

“Kamarullah is the senior captain. Nothing official's been said, though.”

He rose from behind his office desk, conscious of the football trophies that were still bolted to the wall behind him. Tarafah's suite had at last been reassembled, and he'd been moved into it, after insisting on triple-strength locks and bolts on the liquor store.

“Right,” he said, “department inspections at 2601.”

“Very good, Lord Elcap.”

He carried the Golden Orb on his inspection—not the one the Convocation had presented him the day before, but the cruder version that Maheshwari and Alikhan had made in the frigate's machine shop. If the crew drew the conclusion that he appreciated their gift more than that of the Convocation, he would not be disappointed.

The results of the inspection were a little better than he expected, but he'd only completed half of it when Vonderheydte informed him that an urgent, private communication had been received from Squadron Commander Do-faq. Martinez dismissed the crouchbacks, including those he hadn't yet inspected, and took the communication in his office.

Junior Squadron Commander Do-faq commanded the Lai-own cruiser squadron that had been heading toward Zanshaa from Preowin since the rebellion. Hollow Lai-own bones couldn't stand much more than two gravities' acceleration, and he'd been accelerating the whole way. Now that Do-faq bad arrived at Zanshaa, he wasn't about to slow down: he'd continue a wide, eccentric circuit of the system until shooting off toward whatever wormhole the Fleet had assigned him, and in the meantime he'd command his light squadron, which included
Corona,
via remote control.

How Do-faq was going to coordinate his squadrons if he ever had to fight was an open question, given their wildly different performance characteristics. But then, Lai-owns were supposed to be diabolically subtle tacticians, as their performance in the Lai-own War had shown, and Martinez told himself it wasn't his job to worry about it anyway.

Martinez used his captain's key to decode the squadron commander's message, which had crossed the six light-minutes that separated Zanshaa from the Lai-own squadron. When the picture resolved on the display, he saw that Do-faq was a youngish Lai-own for his post, as demonstrated by the dark featherlike hair on the sides of his flat-topped head, the hair that Lai-owns lost on full maturity. His wide-set eyes were golden, and his broad mouth, lined with peg teeth, was set in the weary lines that spoke of nearly thirty days of continual acceleration.

“Lord Captain Martinez,” he said. “Allow me to congratulate you on your promotion and your receipt of the Golden Orb. I hope to have the honor of meeting you in person one day, should the constraints of the service ever permit it.”

Martinez found himself warmed by these civilities. It was always pleasing to discover that your superior officers had a good opinion of you and were willing to say so. He was more accustomed to his superiors pretending that he didn't exist.

Do-faq slid nictating membranes over his eyes. “The loss of
Destiny
has forced me to a number of painful decisions, among them, the reluctant conclusion that Lord Captain Kamarullah is unsuited for command of the squadron.”

Martinez stared at the screen in complete surprise, and touched the control key. “Page crew Alikhan to the captain's office.”

Do-faq continued, his voice weary. “The other captains senior to you would, I am certain, be suitable enough for the task. But they lack combat experience—we
all
lack such experience. All but you.”

The nictating membranes slid away from Do-faq's eyes, and Martinez found himself staring into the lord commander's brilliant gold eyes.

“I am willing to appoint you to command the light squadron, Lord Captain Martinez,” Do-faq said. “I realize that you may consider this an undue burden, considering the problems you must be facing in
Corona
now, with so many new crew and with the other difficulties of a new command. You may decline the appointment without prejudice…”

Martinez paused the message as he heard a knock on the door. He told Alikhan to come in, and as his orderly entered, said, “What's between Do-faq and Kamarullah?”

Alikhan paused for a moment, then silently slid the door shut behind him. “That would date from the maneuvers back in 'seventy-three, my lord,” he said. “There was a misunderstanding of an order that led to the maneuver being spoiled. The Fleet blamed Do-faq, and Do-faq blamed Kamarullah, who was tactical officer on the
Glory
at the time.”

And now I'm in the middle,
Martinez thought. The thought failed to depress him.

Nor did the thought of his new and untried crew, the officers he didn't know, the prospect of captains angry at being passed over, and the certain wrath of Kamarullah. He felt instead the onset of exhilaration, the tingle of blood and mind as he began to grapple with the challenges implied by Do-faq's offer.

“Thank you, Alikhan,” he said. And after Alikhan left, he told the comm board, “Reply, personal to Squadron Commander Do-faq,” and pressed the cipher key.

The light came on that showed he was being recorded, and he gazed into the camera with a face that he hoped broadcast sincerity.

“Though I fear you're giving me far too much credit,” he said, “I am nevertheless honored to accept the appointment. I and the squadron will await your orders.”

He had almost said
my
squadron, but had stopped himself at the last second.

That, he decided, would be conceit.

 

T
he next call came from Lieutenant Captain Kamarullah. He had a squarish face, a mustache, and the graying temples that suggested Do-faq's wrath must have genuinely harmed his career—lieutenant captains were generally promoted well before their hair had a chance to go gray.

“You could refuse the command,” Kamarullah said.

“I'm sorry, Captain,” Martinez said, “but you know that Do-faq would just appoint someone else.”

“You could
all
refuse,” Kamarullah urged. “If the squadron stood united against him, he'd have no choice.”

“I regret the situation,” Martinez said, “but I've accepted the lord commander's offer.”

Kamarullah's lips twisted. “
Regret,
” he repeated. “No doubt.”

Martinez looked at the man coldly. “Captain's breakfast meeting on
Corona
at 0601,” he said. “You may bring your senior lieutenant.”

He'd get the Golden Orb out of its box, he thought, the real one, to demonstrate his authority.

And if
that
didn't work, he'd use it to clout Kamarullah on the head.

Two hours before his breakfast meeting, Martinez was awakened by a messenger who had his sealed orders from the Fleet Control Board. He put on his dressing gown, signed for the orders, broke the seal, and read his squadron's destination.

Hone-bar.
Do-faq was taking two squadrons to Hone-bar, over a month away. That would give him time to work up his ship and his squadron, to have both ready by the time they all arrived.

He paged his steward and ordered coffee.

And then he began to make plans.

 

T
he Home Fleet continued its colossal acceleration runs, making circuits of Zanshaa and Vandrith, then swinging wider still to include other planets and Shaamah, the system's sun. It was joined by the Daimong squadron from Zerafan, which was already at speed when it arrived, and was integrated with Jarlath's forces without trouble.

Do-faq's Lai-own squadron from Preowin arrived, which would serve to protect the capital while the Home Fleet was away. After a month of punishing accelerations mixed with planning sessions with his staff and (by video) with his captains, after endless simulations of the attack, Jarlath no longer even considered holding his armed avengers back. The thought that all the work and pain might go for nothing was too outrageous to contemplate. He asked permission to attack Magaria, and permission was gladly given.

Forty-four days after departing Zanshaa, traveling at .56
c
, the Home Fleet swung around Vandrith for the last time and headed for Zanshaa Wormhole 3 en route to Magaria. It would continue accelerating all the way and should be traveling in excess of .7
c
when it first slammed into Fanaghee's fleet.

Jarlath was weary and in pain, but content with his plans. He knew he was in for a hard fight, but all doubts were gone, and he knew that victory would be his.

What he and everyone else privy to his intentions failed to realize was that the Home Fleet's plans counted upon the enemy making mistakes, or having suffered critical personnel or equipment losses, or of being unable to fully crew or refit their ships.

All these were dangerous assumptions to make, particularly when one remembered that the Naxids had been planning their rebellion for a long, long time.

 

F
anaghee had done well with the time she'd been allotted. Martinez's near-miss with his missile had hit her hard, but not fatally. The electromagnetic pulse from the explosion had raced through the communications net on the ring station and slagged it. All ships but
Ferogash
had been in their berths and connected via cables to station communications, and the EMP had burned along the cables and blown the ships' comm rigs too.

The military communications net was supposed to be hardened against such an attack, and the station
had
been hardened when it was built. But centuries of maintenance shortcuts had bypassed many of the safeguards, and the results left the Naxid command literally speechless.

The secure design of Ring Command had been compromised more recently, in a retrofit that left a coolant pipe connected to the outside without proper safeguards against flash. Though Ring Command was surrounded by slabs of radiation shielding that should have kept everyone safe, the coolant reservoir and radiator was outside Command proper, and had no defenses against the wall of neutrons and energetic gamma rays generated by Martinez's antimatter missile. The coolant was instantly vaporized, flashed into Ring Command, and scalded to death every person present, including Senior Captain Deghbal. The catastrophe was discovered many hours later, when Naxid personnel, unable to raise Ring Command after they had repaired their own comm systems, broke into the hardened facility and discovered Deghbal and her crew sprawled where the erupting poison had caught them.